Wicked Misery (Miss Misery) (8 page)

I had half a mind to run over and punt it about like a soccer ball, but I didn’t dare. The Gryphons could be leaving The Nest at any time, and I didn’t want to get caught nearby. I had no business skulking in the alley, and abusing dragons wasn’t a sport anyone thought highly of, even if they were foul sewer scum.

Gingerly, I pulled my uninjured hand away and examined the damage—blood and two tooth marks on the fleshy part of my left hand between my thumb and index finger. Peachy. It wasn’t an easy spot to bandage. Maybe Vekta, the charm shop’s owner, could help. I didn’t look forward to bleeding all the way home, and I was going to need ointment for this as well. I’d probably spend all of J.G.’s money before I even bought my stepbrothers’ gifts.

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, I was bandaged, charmed and eighty-eight dollars poorer for it. On the other—not bitten—hand, holy mother load of conspiracies. Once I had a moment to mentally replay the conversation with Xander, I couldn’t wait to share it with Lucen.

Vanity addicts plus missing hearts equaled one hell of a scandal for the magi. The Gryphons must be trying to strong-arm Xander into helping them catch the killer. So my only question was—had that been Bridget’s big secret, or was there more? Either way, Lucen was going to be thrilled to discover his theory wasn’t entirely crazy.

Not that I was thinking of excuses for why I should go tell him about it. Of course not.

Chapter Six

After my crappy day, Friday night should have been spent with a glass of Shiraz in one hand, a novel in the other, and the rest of me submerged in a bubble bath. Alas, I had to earn Josephine Gomes’s hundred dollars, especially considering I’d already spent it. That was why I was following my asshole of the night into his apartment in nearby Somerville.

Even if this guy hadn’t coated my mouth with evil burnt oil, he’d have deserved a good kick to the sac. It wasn’t the blond highlights, or the baby-blue polo shirt, or the babbling about his personal training business. It was the ego that went with them.

“What happened to your hand?” Asshole, aka Greg, asked as he unlocked the apartment.

Sheepishly, I tucked my left hand behind my back. Vekta had indeed given me a bandage when I’d burst into her shop bleeding earlier, but the bandage she’d given me had dragons on it. Magi humor—ugh. I’d meant to exchange it for something less humiliating but had completely forgotten. “I cut myself slicing vegetables and had to borrow a bandage from a friend.”

“It’s cute. I love dragons.”

Oh great. He was evil
and
patronizing.

Greg flipped on the lights to reveal a typical bachelor pad. An overstuffed blue sofa faced a huge television, cheap lamps stood on cheaper end tables, and the walls were bare. Decorations aside, it wasn’t a bad apartment. The personal training business must be booming.

“You live alone?”

He grinned, a skeevy expression that made me think of fast food gone bad. “I wish. My roommate’s out.”

I snuck a glance down the hallway toward what must be the bedrooms, curious about Greg’s intentions.

Unlike with the would-be rapist Steph and I had nabbed recently, I couldn’t get a good read on Greg. I tasted the burnt oil, all right. He was definitely up to bad things. But what those things were? I hadn’t a clue.

Why I could read some people clearly but not others was just another mystery surrounding my freakish nature. I had theories, of course. The most promising one being that the more specific the asshole’s desire, the clearer I could read it. But, as with many things about my gift, the truth was something I was reluctant to uncover even if I could.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure.” As soon as Greg turned, I pulled my blood-collection kit from my purse. Despite his three beers, Greg wasn’t acting at all buzzed, and I’d rather him have a bit more alcohol in his system before I mind-fucked him. It would make his memories all the fuzzier in case my magic was too weak. Baring my face like this always made me nervous.

“Jamie?”

I blinked, momentarily forgetting the fake name I’d given him. Greg handed me a drink that smelled like one of those margaritas made with powdered mix. His own drink appeared to be straight tequila or something equally colorless.

I took the glass, and the change in his emotions was so strong it almost bowled me over. His intentions sent my nerves dancing. Lurking evil had become anticipating evil. The foulness in my mouth made my stomach turn, but I merely smiled and raised the glass, pretending to sip.

Greg wet his lips, his eyes focused on my drink. So that was his M.O., huh? I wondered which particular drug he’d added to my cocktail.

All at once images flashed through my mind. Hazy, blurred images, but it was a read nonetheless. Ropes. A bed. A camera. If my theory about why I could read some people was correct, then Greg was making plans for me.

Yuck. I’d had enough of this. We weren’t going to get any more alone, so it was now or never. I gathered my magic in my stomach and exhaled it in his face.

Greg’s will crumpled to the floor. Much better. Burnt oil vanished, replaced by the taste of my mother’s chocolate buttercream icing. Excellent.

Greg dropped to his knees. Not excellent.

I pulled on the misty magic. “Get up, lover boy. Let’s have some fun.”

“Yeah, fun.” Even trapped by my magic he gave me the creeps.

Trying not to touch him, I sashayed down the hallway. Greg’s bedroom was disturbingly normal—a computer on the desk, blue blinds in the window, the usual piles of dirty clothes on the floor. “Where’s the camera?”

“Camera?”

Oh for the love of dragons. I hated how dumb they got under my influence. “Yeah, the camera you were going to use to record me.”

Greg pressed himself against me, fumbling for the closet door, and his erection poked me in the abs. Ew. I pushed a finger into his chest, and he took a step back.

“No touching me.”

His agony grew all the more profound, and he whined.

I pulled open the folding doors on his closet. He had a camera screwed to a tripod, and it was already aimed at the bed. Sighing, I inspected the attachment points. “Screwdriver?”

“But I want to photograph you.” He reached for me, and I smacked his hand.

“You’re a nasty boy, Greg. You don’t deserve a camera. Give me a screwdriver.”

A few minutes later, I had the camera off the tripod. Its memory could be destroyed, and the camera donated to some school or organization that would appreciate it. No doubt Greg would buy another one and use it for his vile purposes, but maybe I could spare a few women in the meantime.

Greg followed me back into the living room where I dropped the camera by my purse and pulled out my blood-collection equipment.

“Greg, what’s your full name?”

“Gregory Penfield. Are you going to finish your drink? I want you so bad.”

I held out the lancet. “All in good time. Doesn’t waiting make the anticipation sweeter?” It sure did for me. I was getting a huge craving for my mother’s chocolate-raspberry cake with buttercream frosting. I’d need to get dessert when this was all over.

I took his hand, and he moaned. “Gregory Penfield, do you give me your blood freely? Say it.”

“Rub me more.”

“Say it first. I, Gregory Penfield, give my blood freely.”

“I, Gregory Penfield, give my blood freely.” He cried out when I pricked him. Wuss.

I got my drops and dug my nails into his hand when I finished. It was supposed to hurt him. Instead he fell to his knees again, moaning in pleasure.

Double yuck. It was time to ruin his memory and get out of here. Greg grabbed my hand, though, as I reached for my bag.

“Don’t leave yet, baby.” Before I could stop him, he stuck my hand in his mouth and started sucking on my fingers.

“Bastard! Ew!” I yanked my hand away. His saliva glistened on my skin. Holding my hand away from my body like it was diseased, I picked up the drugged drink and gave it to him. “Finish this, then take your clothes off and lie down on your bed. I’ll be right there.”

I turned on the bathroom light switch with my elbow and doused my hands under the water. I’d cut the connection with him as soon as he drugged himself. Whatever he put in the glass was likely to mess up his memory far worse than anything I could do.

The soapy water turned my bandage to mush. I dried my hands off on my shirt and gave the bandage a good squishing into my skin, but the adhesive wasn’t happy. I took a couple deep breaths. My reflection stared back at me from the bathroom mirror, not looking half as haggard as I felt.

“Where are you, Jamie baby?”

I gave the bandage a last smush. “Coming.”

Greg was lying spread-eagle on his bed, stark naked, something I could have lived without seeing. Still, I had to admit he made an impressive advertisement for his personal training business.

Stifling a smirk, I walked to the nightstand and checked the glass’s contents. All gone. Happy news at last. I dug through his pants pockets, found his wallet and pocketed his driver’s license. A coil of rope lay tucked under his bed, and I considered tying him up but ultimately decided no. It would require touching him some more.

“You here?”

“I’m here.” He snatched my hand and pulled me onto the bed. Grunting, I yanked it away. “That was very bad of you, Greg. Now close your eyes.”

He did.

“Now imagine me naked.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t move.” I rested my hands on his head and aimed my magic through the palms. “Now forget me.”

He jerked. My hands sizzled. Nonetheless, I suspected that jolt wasn’t strong enough to make him forget everything on its own. After all, I could only make suggestions that he’d want to obey, and Greg had seen and talked to me for too long for those suggestions to win out over his memories. But combined with the drug, I prayed it would be enough.

The magic tightened in my gut, stretching thin, as I retreated into the living room. Eyes closed, I reached my gift out toward him and sensed his consciousness retreating.

With a sigh of relief, I snapped our connection. My stomach eased. Greg whimpered. I paused, my hand on the doorknob, listening for whether he’d get up. Silence came from the bedroom.

But not from the front door. I heard the click just in time, the sound of a key sliding into a lock. Shit. His roommate.

I dove behind the sofa as the front door creaked open. Sweat beaded on my neck. This new person gave off the same icky malice as Greg. Maybe they were in the rape-and-record business together? Nice.

“Greg? You back yet?”

I bundled my gift, ready to charge if the noise brought Greg to consciousness, but I didn’t hear him stir. Footsteps retreated down the hallway, and a door opened. Judging from the sounds that followed, the roommate had gone into the bathroom.

I bounded for the front door, threw it open and bolted outside. It was a good thing Josephine Gomes deserved my help because one hundred dollars just did not cover the pains I’d gone through tonight.

Chapter Seven

Sunday morning meant the Tallyho’s cooks had the kitchen radio tuned to a talk station. The Todd and Tina Show, the bane of my weekends, sputtered at us from the ancient speaker. Tina was, supposedly, an actual reporter, while Todd provided color commentary. Or as I thought of it—failed humor.

I listened halfheartedly as I filled bowls with creamer containers. My hand was still sore from the dragon bite, and it interfered with my serving. Annoyed, I rubbed my new bandage. That hideous one from Vekta had fallen off somewhere on the journey home from Greg’s apartment Friday night. Thankfully.

World news switched to local news, and my ears perked up.

“Somerville police found the bodies of two men murdered in their home very early this morning, although they estimate their deaths occurred late Friday night or early Saturday morning. Neighbors aren’t recalling any disturbances—”

Damn. That was about when I’d been in Somerville.

“Their names are not currently being released, but neighbors report a lot of commotion surrounding the crime scene, including several Gryphons who were brought in. From what we can gather, there are commonalities between these murders and the recent murders of those four young women—Melissa Buteau, Leslie Liu, Amanda Miller and Maria Gallagher. Rumors were circulating this morning that the victims had been mutilated, although it’s not clear what that might mean.”

I dropped a creamer. Mutilated—like a heart removed? And were these new guys vanity addicts? I scratched my healing neck, feeling the lump where the imp’s stinger had gotten me. Yet still, serial killers tended to concentrate on one gender. Weird.

“Stay with us, Boston,” Tina said over the airwaves. “When we return from commercial break, we’ll be interviewing Doctor Diane Potter, a forensic psychologist who’s going to tell us more about serial killers and speculate on what the police and the Gryphons haven’t been sharing.”

My cream tower collapsed. Scowling, I stuffed the remaining containers into bowls and stuck them in the fridge.

That a magus would target humans for their hearts made sense. Sort of. Serial killers tended to stick to their own kind. Magi murdered magi. Humans murdered humans. Preds murdered preds, although I’d never actually heard of a pred serial killer. They tended to kill each other for more practical reasons.